


The Light

by JollyOzzyJones



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Baby Aramis, Baby Porthos, Blood and Gore, Magic, Minor Character Death, Violence, not so minor character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 16:53:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11085870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JollyOzzyJones/pseuds/JollyOzzyJones
Summary: This is an alternate universe that has magic, because Musketeers and magic go together like peanut butter and jam, like guava paste and cheese (trust me), like Lancelot and Arthur... er... anyway, something evil is slowly but surely taking over the country, and for some reason he has turned his eyes to a small child. The reasons behind it might just be the hope the resistance needed. Baby Porthos and Aramis! in danger! Athos and d'Artagnan will show up in the future.





	The Light

**Author's Note:**

> Goosefat Bill is here because my mind is weird when I'm asleep. This is an alternate universe that has magic, and isn't set in any specific time. The whole thing, down to the names of characters (and actors, really) were in my latest, wild wild dream, and I woke up in the middle of the night, put pen to paper and wrote it down before I slept, forgot all about it, woke up in the morning and read it again, procrastinated for 3 days, cleaned it up and posted here =)  
> It's more of a preface than a whole story, but it stands on its own until I stop procrastinating on The Hunted and have time for yet another long, long ride.  
> People die in here folks, this is a bleak world. Some deaths are really painful, and some a bit graphic. Watch out for the tags!

Three horse-pulled wagons thundered across the cold muddy road, the dangerous storm making the sounds of the hooves and the creaky wheels almost inaudible. Fat raindrops mercilessly stung the exposed faces and hands of the people in the open wagons, and the horses’ warm breath could be faintly seen in sharp bursts of mist in front of their faces. A sense of desperation hung heavy in the air, and the only man not wearing a hat, in the middle wagon, looked up worriedly.

  
“They’ll find us” he whispered. No one should’ve been able to hear him under the racket of the storm, but the woman across from him looked at him and replied, just as softly, frightened:

  
“Are you sure, William?”

  
Before he could reply, countless white flashes banged into existence all around them, startling some of the horses badly enough that the last cart tumbled once sideways and slid forward, knocking the two poor horses off their feet and the three occupants to the mud. The sounds of the apparitions seemed delayed, or they just didn’t register, panic guiding their actions now.

  
Screams and loud explosions were the symphony of the next few seconds, eternity in the hearts of the people being attacked mercilessly. Two in the front wagon were killed in a matter of seconds, completely caught by surprise by the fiery red spells cast by the ghost-like men, and the other two fought bravely, conjuring shields faster than they ever could before, but too many spells cast against them quickly overpowered them. A last resort attempt by them generated enough concussive force to send their skull-masked assailants flying in all directions, three of them to never rise again, accidentally flung against sharp stones. But the others recovered, and exhausted, the two fell.

  
In the middle wagon the woman and William fought ferociously, back to back with the other three men in the front, surrounding the middle of the cart, which was covered. The three from the last wagon had rushed to their aid, in the process of carving through the masses of enemies that surrounded their precious cargo. Thunder roared in the sky, but explosive spells with as much destructive force created true chaos in the ground. It was a lost cause from the start, William despaired. As more of his fellow men and women fell, he made the hardest decision of his life.

  
The woman next to him blinked in surprise and then acceptance, still fighting with all her not inconsiderable might. She performed a spell similar to the one cast by her fallen comrades, blasting all the enemies several feet back and gaining some respite. At that moment however another bang and white flash brought the man they all feared right in the place that was cleared. All the attackers then just stopped to watch. The three from the last wagon were slowly disintegrated with a sickly yellow burst and horrible screams of pain, and two of the remaining men fighting alongside them cried their losses, pain making them reckless. They rushed forward, wands raised, but they never stood a chance. A quieter, but no less terrible curse made them gasp, blood pouring from their mouths suffocating them to death. William let the tears flow; the rain would hide them anyway.

  
“I might consider being merciful,” the voice from the being of pure evil in front of them was as cold and terrible as they would expect. “if you give me the boy.”

  
“Never.” The older man in the front sneers, but his face immediately contorts in pain and he screams, falling to his knees. And then he’s dead. William sobs, the woman looks away, and the man says again:

  
“Now, the boy.”

  
“You’re too late” William says, defiant. “He’s not here. You lost again.” And he grins, maniacally.

  
“Will!” The woman exclaims, terrified, and William tumbles, back hitting the side of the wagon the only thing keeping him up. His eyes turn black and he gasps in pain.

  
“Then you’ll show me where to find him” The evil man sneers, ruthlessly breaking down William’s mental shields and penetrating his mind. Fiery pain makes William gasp again, but then he stops.

  
“So that’s why you want him?” He asks in wonder, sea green eyes back to normal, staring straight into the red irises of the monster before him. The evil man screeches in rage, lightning shoots from his crooked fingers and William cries in agony.

  
“NO!” the woman bellows, and throws herself against the horrible man, who screeches in agony at the contact. Her spells were invincible against most people, and so was her brute force, but this wasn’t most people. He bodily pushes her away, his hands closed around her neck. She gasps, life force being drained from her faster than could be believed, the forbidden curses shouldn’t be so effortless!

  
A loud hum suddenly fills the air, and a blinding light suddenly bursts in front of them. The evil man roars in anger and vanishes in a swirl of dark cloak, his minions following immediately. William falls to his knees, then all fours, and drags himself towards the woman.

  
“Marie” He gasps, reaching her side “Oh no…” She’s… old. Her hair has gone snow white, curls lifeless, soaked with rain, and her skin is tight over her bones, emaciated and painful looking. Her eyes remain alert though.

  
“William…” She whispers, exhausted. Her question is understandable through years of friendship and love.

  
“There’s a prophecy” He explains what he saw in the mind of the monster that did this, that kills and kills with no regard, that wants to destroy the whole world. “Porthos, your son, he’s going to destroy him.” He winces in pain. “It’s years and years from now, and he won’t be alone, but he’s the one that can finish this, this evil can’t touch him”

  
“So that’s why” She echoes his words from before, pain and sadness in her expression “He’s just a baby, my baby…” Her tears are only noticeable because William is above her, shielding her from the rain. Her fragile hands smooth over his face, wiping away his own tears. Then she smiles barely noticeably, and only for his sake. He’s the only other person apart from her son that makes her happy, but she thinks his own son would too, had she only had the chance to meet him. Another baby, even younger than hers, in this cruel, dangerous world. “You will take care of my Porthos, right? And your René as well, they will grow bold and strong, stronger than us!” She whispers fiercely, her last energy making sure he will understand, hands holding his face in place, sea-green and dark chocolate staring, and the whole world suddenly muted around them.

  
“I promise” he replies just as fierce, fresh tears running down his face. He knows she won’t make it, and there’s nothing he can do to stop this tragedy. He doesn’t know how he’ll be able to go on, but he will, for Porthos, for René… for Marie. His throat hurts from holding in his sobs.

  
Their saviours finally approach, a full battalion from the ministry, and their leader and friend approaches, heart heavy with pain upon seeing them. He falls to his knees next to Marie and William.

  
“Treville…” William whispers, closing his eyes. And everything goes dark.

 

 

Two days later William is in a poorly lit little house. The cot in the room holds Porthos, and Porthos holds René, pale and with bright red fever spots in his tiny face, both asleep. William carefully extricates the younger from the protective hold, but he has no luck. Porthos immediately awakes and starts protesting, his almost three year old mind seeing in the separation the same horrors from his separation from his mother. William kneels next to him, René safely tucked in his arms, and Porthos runs tiny fingers along the baby’s arms.

  
“He’s sick, we hafta sing to him!” he whispers indignantly, mindful as always. “He likes sleeping next to me, it helps his breathing!”

  
“I know Porthos, but he needs medicine as well, and we don’t have the right ones. Thérèse does. He’ll be gone just a few days, I promise”

  
Porthos scrunched up his face, displeased. His eyes on the other hand showed the terror the too young kid was trying to hide. His mom also only had to go away for a few days… But he knew Thérèse, she had taken care of them both while his mom and William were away. So he reluctantly agreed.

  
The knock on the door startled them both. William convinced Porthos to go back to the cot and try to rest; it was late in the night anyway. But before he could be convinced he demanded to kiss René’s forehead, whispering something to him that William couldn’t hear.

  
William opens the door. Thérèse smiles at him, the slight woman dwarfed by her heavy coat and innumerable wool and cotton layers. She hates the cold. She mutely extends her arms and William, as reluctant as Porthos minutes before, slowly and carefully hands her his son.

  
“I don’t know what ails him, but apart from the fever, tiredness and raspy breath he seems fine” he mumbles, trying to delay the inevitable. He had already told her that. She expertly tucks the baby against her chest, the outer layers almost completely covering him when she laces her arms. A tiny magic nudge holds them as if closed around her, and she barely looks different from when she arrived. Good.

  
“I told you, babies are stronger than we think. He’s got the flu for sure, a few days with some vapours and he’ll be brand new.”

  
“I promise to send word, but it won’t be longer than a week, I promise” He says, eyes not moving from the slight lump his son produces in her many layers. A baseless fear takes hold, and he swears if he can’t see René one more time he never will again. So he moves closer, and nudges her coat aside, glimpsing his dark brown curls, and delicate, tiny hands and fingers, and pudgy arms, his button nose, and long lashes softly brushing his cheeks, always dimpled with a smile, now just tired. He looks so much like his mother. Thérèse smiles sadly at him, and reminds him:

  
“A week, and then you’ll all be safe”

  
“Yes. A week.” He breathes, and lets go of the coat, drags his eyes back to her face.

  
“I’ll take care of him, as if he were my own”

  
She smiles again, and disappears into the night, silent as a shadow. William inhales deeply, only now noticing he was holding his breath. A week, and then he’ll be able to move them both, Porthos and René, to safety. He locks the door and raises the protective spells when he realises he's been standing there for several minutes, and as an afterthought raises the shield around the cot. He puts water to boil, the night will be long, and he’s sure he won’t be able to sleep in the next days anyway.

  
He’s about to pick a mug from the cupboard when the front door is blasted open. He drops it, rushing to the baby room’s door, but the whole house implodes. The resulting shockwave levels the rest of the neighbourhood. But he won’t know about it.

 

 

The sound is deafening. Samara automatically ducks, but realises whatever it is, is far enough that she’s not at risk, but looking up again shows that the explosion or whatever it was was too close for comfort. Any sane woman would run the opposite direction, she thinks. These are dangerous times, especially for people like her, she reasons. Her feet rarely listen to her brain.

  
Picking her way through back alleys and hidden shortcuts, she sees rats rushing the opposite direction, and knows that whatever happened did not end well for anyone. It almost seems intentional, she muses darkly, when she can see the results. An almost perfect hundred meter radius around a random epicentre in the middle of the town, completely levelled. The house that seemed the focus of the explosion (attack?) was absurdly the least damaged, but by no means salvageable. Some of the walls still stood, and the collapsed roof had portions that were still holding the tiles in place.

  
She stayed hidden in the shadows, listening, for long minutes, but only quiet reached her. Whoever caused this, be an attacker or someone that caused an accident, was no longer here. Her hopes of salvaging anything worth some money, the excuse she created to rationalize her heart’s (feet!) decision were partially dashed, but maybe she would be lucky and find some jewellery. The less destroyed house is her only option, and she’s lucky. A nice set of simple golden earrings and necklace, with a cute little pattern on them, are intact, as are the gold and silver coins. She feels guilty, but at least she’ll have food for the whole month! Then her blood freezes in her veins, and tears spring to her eyes. That’s a baby’s little pair of shoes. Her hand covers her mouth before her sobs escape. Next to them she can see what probably used to be a toy; it looked like a wooden horse. She stands and looks around frantically, hoping help will arrive, but everything is quiet. Nothing would have survived anyway, she chides herself, wiping her tears off angrily. She doesn’t want anything else from this place, but years trying to survive stop her from simply dropping the money and the jewellery. But she won’t keep looking. She doesn’t want to find anything else here.

  
The wind picked up leaves from the tree in the park opposite her and lifted them up in her direction, softly teasing her curls as she turned to leave. It also brought an almost inaudible cry. Her blood started pumping very fast, and she stood still and breathless, listening. And sure enough, the next wind gust brought the sound again, a child! She threw carefulness to the winds, rushing to the other side of the ruins, the middle completely blocked by the roof.

  
She skids to a halt when she can’t see anything apart from rubble. But the cries are closer, and she starts carefully picking her way in the rubble, slowly inching closer to where she could hear it. Then she saw a faint green glow. Heart racing, she moved the broken tiles and bricks and mortar, and she could see a magic shield protecting a small cot, and within it a small child! The shield was flickering weakly, how long was it there without someone maintaining it? Just as the thought crossed her mind the shield vanished, raining dust on the kid, a boy of maybe 2 or 3, and he stopped crying. He had noticed her, big soft brown eyes peering up at her large as dinner plates, scared out of his mind. He’s sitting in the farthest corner from her, knees tucked under his chin, arms wrapped around them, wild curls so like her own almost white from the plaster dust.

  
“We need to get away, kid” She says soothingly, worried now. This was no accident. Someone tried to destroy this place, and whoever it was might return at any time to make sure. Hopefully the kid won’t start crying again, ears straining for any sign of danger. But he stays silent, completely petrified. She hunkers down, slowly moving closer, arms outstretched, as non-threatening as she could make them. And suddenly she has an armful of quietly sobbing child, trembling against her chest and holding as tightly as his little arms can, almost strangling her. “Shh, it’s ok, I got you, I got you. You’re safe now, I promise”. Samara doesn’t hesitate, holding the boy tight, and runs.

 

 

Two weeks have passed, Thérèse thinks furiously. Two weeks and not a word from William. That secrecy bullshit was getting on her nerves now, nothing would justify leaving your kid that long without a word. She was holding the babe the same way as before, the poor thing quiet as a mouse, now much better from the flu. René was completely adorable, but he was not her kid, and definitely not a burden you dropped off with the nearest nursemaid you could find and promptly forgot all about. Her trip to Paris couldn’t be delayed again, her work was important, whatever William’s work was couldn’t be more important than her translation skills for the Ministry of Defence anyway.

  
Her mutinous thoughts screeched to a halt when she turned the corner around the park and complete desolation greeted her. William’s house, the whole neighbourhood, was razed to the ground. She paled and took two quick steps back, heart hammering against her chest.

  
“Oh god” she whispered. So her assumptions that William was involved with some shady stuff were right! The baby in her arms felt like a target now. She schooled her face, made sure René was completely hidden and slowly walked away, but not towards her own house. If someone had seen her with René these past few days, if someone remembered that William used to live next door to her when they were kids, if they had seen him coming to her house to pick René and Porthos the last time… oh god, Porthos might be hurt, Porthos was probably… René and she were not safe. Her analytical mind took over, as it usually did in any crisis, a trait that had her working with sensitive information, that made her so useful exactly because she could analyse risks and determine the likeliest scenarios… René couldn’t stay with her. And if no one knew his name, if no one knew of his existence, then he would be safe. Safer than she could ever make him. The orphanage she had automatically, unconsciously walked to loomed in front of her in the dark, not too close, but not too far away from his house, the best place to hide in plain sight. A lot of babies lived in orphanages…

  
She quickly conjured a basket with white cushions, the softest she could imagine. The new moon hid her from view, and the quiet streets were empty, workers just back to their homes from the day, partygoers not yet out for the night. The babe wouldn’t have to wait long until someone at the orphanage would open the door. Quietly she put René in the basket, covered him with the tiny quilt she made him the first time he and Porthos stayed with her, and carefully left him at the front doorstep. René was still quiet, luminous almond shaped eyes staring at her in adoration. He always had that look, everything wonderful to his eyes, so easily amused, she smiled, and tears finally sprung to her eyes. She hoped he’d be happy, and safe. And she left, not once looking back.

  
From the other side of the street, leaning casually under the shade of a tree, stood a woman. She saw the whole debacle, and sadness filled her heart. She knew very well how cruel the world was, but she couldn’t imagine the horrors a mother would have to face to leave their baby behind. Maybe a violent husband or family member, maybe hunger, or even disease. She couldn’t lay blame on the poor woman, especially with the tears she saw in her face. But she also knew what that orphanage was like. She had lived there. And those were not good people. After all, they had taught her all about her job.

  
Mere seconds after the woman turned around the corner, she sashayed to the doorstep, skirts rustling around her thighs, casually plucked the basket and disappeared in an alley. She quickly bundled the baby in the quilt, she would make sure to take care of it, probably the only memory the baby would ever have from its mother, picked the baby up carefully, and kicked the basket behind a dumpster.

  
Then she noticed how quiet the baby was, and had a moment of dread thinking it was dead, before looking at its face frantically. The baby was looking at her, completely quiet, eyes staring for a moment before it blinked and smiled at her, a full, open mouthed, eyes squinted, dimpled smile, but still so silent. She caught herself smiling back at it (she had to check if it was a boy or a girl soon, the quilt was not colour coded and there was no card with a name). Maybe it was mute? Whatever, she thought. Then and there, she makes an important decision without hesitation. The baby is hers now.

 

 

The end (for now...)


End file.
